


MY DANCER

by therearethingsineed



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Blow Jobs, Dancing, M/M, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therearethingsineed/pseuds/therearethingsineed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has just turned eighteen, and a few of his friends decide to take him to a variety of strip clubs as a treat. One of the dancers, however, catches his eye...</p>
            </blockquote>





	MY DANCER

**Author's Note:**

> I'm stepping a bit out of my comfort zone here-- I have very limited knowledge as to how strip clubs work, especially the male variety, and have never actually written smut before, so be gentle with me! It's a mix of Stiles'and Derek's perspectives, and it's hard to make that transition smooth, so I apologize for that. If I offend or make any gross inaccuracies, I'd love to know for future reference. Thank you all! Enjoy the d!

(STILES' POV)

They say you only turn eighteen once. Well, okay, that's true-- it's not really that monumental, though. You only turn seventeen once. You only turn nineteen once. You only turn forty-two once. So why was eighteen so important?

That had been the question bouncing around my mind all night. Me, the most brand new eighteen year old I knew. How nifty.

As if.

So, there I was, at a gay strip club with a bunch of my friends, who were all drunk and totally out of their minds. How, might you ask, did I end up in a gay bar with friends over the age of twenty one? Well, let me explain.

First of all, only one of my three friends is gay. Each of them took me to a different club. When we arrived and The Cheeky Beach (a regrettable name, at the very least), it was nearly three in the morning, and it was the last club on our list. We were already rank with the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap booze, but this factor only seemed to egg my friends on more.

As to their ages, you see, I played tuba in the ninth grade. I was only in music long enough to get a credit out of it, but I made friends with a lot of upperclassmen in the process.

And voila; nearly four years later, they are all legal adults, attempting to induct me into their delirious, odd-scented world.

It wasn't working.

Maybe it was because I had an AP Literature test the next day, but gyrating hips had done little more than grate my gears. I was itching to get home; my eyelids were heavy, I had a strange rash on the back of my leg and I was painfully sober (I was, of course, the designated driver). Still, my friends were, as ever, relentless.

"I'm promising you, Stiles," Isaac slurred, sipping his vodka lemonade, a little dripping down his chin, "You-- You'll love this, I did. Iss great, so great." He burst out laughing, catching a glimpse of our two other friends, Scott and Boyd, resting peacefully in their seats. Due to their heterosexuality and overt drunkenness, their bodies had apparently chosen that precise moment to shut down.

I sighed. It figured they'd leave me alone with this.

Isaac was persistent, though, and I wouldn't lie and say I wasn't vaguely interested in what he was jabbering on about. We were seated before a large stage, waiting patiently for... well, for the stripping. Male stripping.

I swallowed, a hard knot forming in my throat. Now, I wasn't gay, necessarily. More like... open. Open is a good term. Still, whether it was the heavy scent of alcohol or the second wind I was only beginning to feel, I was anticipating this show more than the other two. My palms were sweaty, and I was caught between wanting to go home and wanting to stay. A part of me screamed that, as per right of the birthday boy, I was completely capable and in want of going home, going to bed. But my body just wouldn't do it. 

I was actually interested in seeing a bunch of dudes in leather thongs.

Or, at the very least, I was too exhausted to move.

Likely the latter, I decided, as I picked up my phone.

As if by an act of God, the moment my hand brought my touchscreen up, the lights went down. Stubbornly, I punched in my code, headed for my text messages. Dad was working a late shift, I should let him know I was safe.

Absorbed momentarily in texting, I didn't notice the lonely figure appear from the back of the stage, and walk down to the front.

There was total silence, save for the small taps that came from my phone.

After a moment, Isaac smacked me.

I looked up, and up, and up. A pair of unrealistically lucid, green eyes gazed down at me from the stage. My mouth was, shamefully, ajar. The eyes, I noticed, were connected to a hulking, shadowed body. That body had an arm that was outstretched and pointing to a sign.

"ALL CELLULAR PHONES MUST BE SILENCED PRIOR TO THE SHOW"

My jaw snapped shut, and my phone quickly disappeared into my pocket. "Sorry," I said awkwardly, breaking the tense silence.

He made no response; just turned and exited back behind the curtain. I watched until he disappeared, until the red velvet had stopped rippling, before I sank down in my seat and groaned. Isaac was laughing, still too drunk to take anything seriously.

How embarrassing.

 

(DEREK'S POV)

 

How embarrassing.

I sighed, scratching at an itchless spot on my forearm. The kid, whoever he'd been, hadn't read the signs. Probably because he was a kid. Or because he was stupid.

Likely both, I figured. They seemed to go well together.

I blamed my anger-- the impulsive nature that resided so feral and untamed inside of me. It wasn't that big of a deal-- so the kid had his phone out, whatever. Still, they were supposed to be off. There were signs all over the fucking place that said 'no cellphones'. It bugged me when people were too drunk or too stupid to understand even the most basic things, and they tended to provoke me into correcting though misunderstandings.

Like I had just done.

On stage.

In front of a crowd.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I realized I'd likely be in for a talking-to later from my boss. It was only more motivation to put on a good show; I'd need those tips.

I needed all the money I could get. My house was only semi-restored; the rustic old Victorian sat in the woods, dilapidated and sad-looking as ever. Ten years ago, my grandmother and a few of our relatives had burned alive inside of it. Now I owned it, and I was doing my damnedest to fix it up.

It obviously wasn't progressing quickly, but the fact was that it was progressing, which was all that mattered.

I wandered back to the curtain, having drifted off towards the dressing room. I had been dressed since nearly ten o'clock; it would be the third, and last, time I danced that night. It couldn't come quickly enough.

Peaking out of the small gap made by the red velvet, I could see the boy I had scolded, sunken in his seat, face palpably red, even in the low light. It made me smile. That was what he got for not reading my signs.

My eyes lingered a moment too long on his jaw, his throat. I pulled away, getting into position. Just one more night, and then I had the weekend to hammer nails and patch up my leaky roof.

Just one more night.

Moments passed, seemingly eons, when the curtain was finally pulled. And so the madness started.

It was fair to say the male stripping and female stripping were two very different games. In female stripping, most men will lazily stand at the wayside, dumping money onto the floor or catcalling from their seat, faces kept low to try to catch a glimpse of something sweeter. The real danger for the women came after the show; when the men who were too feeble-minded to control themselves went looking for favors.

In male stripping, it was the opposite.

I had stepped on hands before during dances, had bumped patrons on accident, had been tripped. They were vicious, crawling up to meet you, hands desperate for more than just a quick payout. They lacked the same inhibition that they retained with women; they shrieked and laughed and felt and rioted. It was insanity. And when the music turned off, and my chaps went into a drawer somewhere, those same wild animals reverted into tired cats and staggered towards home.

That night, more than most, was absolutely nuts.

I kept my body in prime condition, that much was obvious. In that set alone, I was stripped down to nearly naked and doused with water. And then in the third act, there was the honey. Sweet Jesus, did those boys like to see me lick honey from my fingers.

It was empowering, in a way. I was gay, I knew that. I liked sex, I liked being on top. I like being challenged, more than anything. When I was on stage, I felt big, massive; a contender. Just waiting for the underdog to swoop in and fight me.

I wasn't expecting it, wasn't even conscious of the ways my eyes strayed back to that boy in the front row. He wore glasses, reflecting colors from the stage. His mouth was slightly open, as it had been when he first looked at me. Good, I thought. I like that face on you.

The honey was on my hands, dribbling down my forearms, when the unthinkable happened. With one finger in my mouth, I watched, eyes wide, as that same boy stood up, and hopped onstage.

Security was rushing in from the sides, but things seemed to move so very, very slowly. He reached out, long, slender hands, and pulled open my shorts. A second later, he slid a twenty inside. Despite years of training, my hand, still sticky and coated in melted sugar and honey, closed over the bill, over his hand.

He was on his knees before me, eyes locked on mine. I felt myself grow painfully hard, and wished that for just a handful of minutes we weren't standing on a stage. It would be over so fast, all I needed was just a few seconds alone with that mouth, those lips, slightly parted. 

Reality burst in, a rush of cold water over a burning flame, as security ripped him away from me. I started, ready to jump down, save that stupid fucking kid. I marshaled myself, pulled back into the sway of my routine, and refused to look back at him for the rest of the dance. Security had put him back in his seat, but I stoically kept my eyes diverted.

I swear, though-- on my mother's life, I swear I saw that brat lick his knuckle out of the corner of my eye.

My erection wasn't well disguised in the tight shorts, but it went over remarkably well. I danced, despite visceral pain, until the end of the set. When the music stopped and the lights went down, I ripped myself off the floor and into the dressing room. Buckets of water were waiting for me to rinse my arms off, and I scrubbed until they were raw.

 

(STILES' POV)

 

I wish I could tell you I was somehow drunk secondhand, or that my exhaustion had gotten the better of me, but the truth is I was fully aware of myself when I crawled up on stage and put that twenty in that dancer's underpants.

I mean, fucking christ-- how could I not?

He was long and hard and so fucking hot. I still wasn't convinced I was gay-- 'open' still seemed like a preferable term-- but I would have dropped to my knees for that man in a heartbeat.

I shuddered at the thought. That was the main difference between him and me; he was definitely a man, with his muscle and his stubble and his sharp, gorgeous eyes. I was still a kid, gawky and thin, and completely capable of embarrassing myself in the most basic of ways.

Isaac had placed the twenty in my hand when the lights had gone up on the stage; had said to throw it to the dancer I liked the most. Simply put, I hadn't wanted to risk that money going to any other dancer. I wanted it safe on his person, where it belonged.

God, did you know his dick had been in my face? Like, right there, wrapped in tight pleather, topped with a drop of honey. I sat in my seat, thinking about it, as the show ended.

His response hadn't been all together positive; his hand had clamped down on mine, probably to throw it away, and security had been on me in an instance. Still, I couldn't bring myself to regret it. I felt more alive in that tiny space of time than I had all night-- Hell, I had felt more alive than any other occasion in my last eighteen years on the planet.

That dancer disappeared-- when I asked for his name later that night, Isaac told me they referred to him as "The Alpha". I scoffed, rolling my eyes a little. It was a silly name, but I could see its source. He had exuded virility.

Driving my now unconscious friends home, I wondered idly if he had some kind of fucked up, weird hobby-- like gardening. Who the fuck gardened? Fucking weirdos, that's who.

The mental picture on him, dark arms buried in dirt, the seat of his jeans tight from bending over, was entirely unhelpful in dispelling my new-found obsession with him.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I went back the next night.

And the week after that.

And the week after that.

 

(DEREK'S POV)

 

He was back, nearly twice a week, sitting in that same fucking seat, right up front. He watched us do the same routine without interruption, and I wasn't fucking imagining that his eyes never left me.

The kid had a crush.

What a fucking joke!

I wanted to tell him to scram, to turn around and take a hike. To turn around and get the fuck out of dodge, before I lost my cool, climbed off that stage and had him suck me off right there in public.

Do you know how hard it is to dance with a boner? It's painful, for starters. Its painful, and it's awkward, and it's obvious. Sure, the guys in the crowd loved the fact that I was up there, feeling it as much as they were, but I hated it. I felt like a sweaty animal, with fraying control.

I didn't like it one bit.

And I'd make sure that kid knew.

 

(STILES' POV)

 

Shit. Christ. Almighty fuck-my-life.

I arrived at the club, heading for my seat, when I spotted someone sitting there. At first, I thought it might be another patron, beating me to the best seat in the house (I generally arrived early to secure it), but I realized quickly that I was wrong.

It was my dancer.

Fucking-- God damn it!

I was ready to turn on my heel and bolt, but he saw me. He was wearing the tearaway workout pants used in the first set, and his thick torso was covered by a dark, snug sweater. A hood covered his head, but I would have recognized that kind of posturing and the aura of obscene masculinity anywhere.

His head was turned, shadowed, but very definitely looking at me. I was frozen, meaning to turn and run, but feeling incapable of doing so.

He stood, walked to me. I waited, unable to do anything else. He grabbed my arm, pulled me behind him. I followed, unable to anything else.

I tripped down the aisle, up a small flight of stairs, past a few other dancers and into a room labelled "PROPS". He let go of me only after he'd shut the door.

It was entirely dark, and I reached out for something to hold. I came up against his chest, and gulped loudly when he pulled me in. 

Shit-- Oh.

Oh.

He was kissing me. Like, deep throat, sloppy, messy heaven-- his tongue was laving mine, our teeth bumping, his hands tangled in the front of my shirt, and in my hair. My hands were idle for only a moment until I might as well have been attempting to climb him; my hands snaked around his neck, and I pressed my body into his, mouth meeting his, violent blow for violent blow.

Wild with abandon, we collided with a shelf of props. Hats and whips and any assortment of other items came raining down on us, but we were unstoppable. Though our respective genitalia were separated by at least four layers of fabric, we pressed them together, both fighting for some kind of release; our hip met, separated, met again, an age old rhythm our bodies were desperately in-tune with. His hands started moving downward, digging into my shoulders, my hips, my ass; he pulled me sharply up, stepping between my legs and pressing himself even more closely against me.

"Jesus H. Christ," I panted into his mouth, his teeth now making short work of my lower lip.

His hands were prying into the denim of my jeans, and I was arching carelessly into him. "Fuck me," he replied, more to himself than as an actual directive.

Still, I couldn't help but respond, "Can I?"

"I do the fucking, kid," Came his response.

"You sound insecure," I chuckled, groaning as he sunk his teeth into the sensitive flesh at the base of my throat. He was rough as hell, but it was too much of a turn on to even imagine asking him to stop. "Okay, okay, I get it!" I rocked my pelvis against his, silently begging.

He pulled away, and for a moment I felt lonely; then I heard the ripping of his pants and immediately began to follow suit. My jacket, my shirt, my jeans; I got naked, and reached out for him, my hand catching his long, powerful calf. I half-pulled him, half dragged myself until my face was level with his crotch, my knees squarely resting between his feet. 

"Wait--" He started, only a moment too late. My mouth found his hip bone, and slowly followed it down. He had taken off that joke of a dance suit he wore, the small black thing he had somehow managed to hold his junk in. It was just him; bare and fucking wonderful. My tongue started at the base, tracing a heavy vein upward until it met the head of his penis. He jerked, hands buried in my hair. He step away-- almost stumbling (he was too graceful, I think, to really stumble) and I heard him hit the wall near the door.

For a very blue moment, I thought he was going to leave. Had I done it wrong? Did he not like blow-jobs? I wasn't exactly experienced, but I had figured that most guys went for that shit. I knew I was raring for one.

Instead of running, however, he turned on the light. I flinched, prepared for the hollow brightness of a fluorescent bulb. The light, however, was dim. Maybe old, or losing power, or just a low wattage, but the glow it cast was soft and yellowish, warm and perfect. He stood, my dancer, chest heaving, just feet away. I could see the line of my saliva on his dick, longed to finish what I had started. Maybe I'd do better if I tried again.

He said the last thing I was expecting. "If you're gonna fucking pull that shit, it's not going to be in the dark," He growled (he actually growled-- I was lucky I was kneeling, 'cause I would have puddled on the floor right then and there had I been standing).

I grinned, a laugh escaping my lips. "You mean it?"

Something in my question jarred him; he looked stunned for a minute, and then looked away, as if embarrassed. If the lighting was better, and I was more perceptive, I might have noticed a slight tinge of red on his cheeks. "Yeah, you brat. Now finish the fucking job, I have a show to do."

I met him half way, my knees scraping painfully against the concrete floor, but I couldn't find the energy to care. My mouth was on his dick, my hands at his hips, tracing the heavy muscles, the contours, the base of his shaft. One of his hands was limp at his side, the other was attempting to get a grip on my short hair. I laughed around the head of his penis, tongue pressed against the sensitive juncture beneath. He came shortly after, a low groan followed by the fast, controlled pinioning of his hips.

I kind of expected cum to taste disgusting, but it had an odd, salty flavoring; I didn't mind, but it took a few attempts to swallow it all.

I collapsed back, comfortable enough to wrap a hand around my own dick, still hard and very much unaided. He stretched once, hopped in place, and then went to find his pants. Disappointment flooded through me, and I sat awkwardly on the cold ground, body still demanding some form of recompense.

He didn't say a word; just pulled on his short and pants and stalked out.

 

(DEREK'S POV)

 

I was in a bind. I had never gone on late for a show, and even with his mouth wrapped around my cock, I'd still had the smallest sense that I needed to check the clock, make sure I had time for this.

In a way, I was pissed. I had planned to pull him backstage, talk to him, tell him not to be so stalkerish, to get a life, find a girl or a guy, whatever-- instead, he had brushed up against me in the dark and I had fucking lost it.

He smelt like laundry detergent and cheap body spray and some shampoo I would have killed to know the name of.

I ducked out of the props closet, shirtless and still breathless. That kid knew how to give a blowjob-- I paused. No, that guy knew how to give a blowjob. He wasn't a man, but I couldn't think of him as a kid any more. He had to be at least seventeen or eighteen, so it wasn't like I was breaking the law. Technically.

I only had to walk a few feet before I found one of the other dancers. I made conversation short, and fast.

I had five minutes till places were called.

That was five minutes less than he deserved, but I could at least help him with his erection before I had to really go to work.

Upon reentering the props closet, I discovered something I wasn't quite expecting. He was jerking himself off, face slightly flushed, pupils strongly dilated. Absently, I noticed his eyes were brown. "Stop that," I muttered, cracking my knuckles as I lowered myself on to the ground with him. "Let me."

Ten minutes later, I was lying half on top of him, nursing a semi-hard-on and nibbling the hollow of his hip. He was resting against the wall, midst a mess of toy guns and fake construction equipment. He picked up a stetson from the mess, and placed it on his head, a stupid grin on his face. "You're late for your show," he murmured.

"Fuck you," I responded, as affectionately as possible.

"Would you?" He winked.

I just smiled a wolf smile.

Looks like I found my underdog.


End file.
